


With Only Mild Complaining

by divagando



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Assassination Attempt(s), Canon-Typical Violence, Force-Sensitive Shmi Skywalker, Galactic Road Trip, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Tatooine, The Force
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-12 08:05:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15335496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/divagando/pseuds/divagando
Summary: The reckless Senator of Stewjon is on the run. Again. Stuck on Tatooine, he's looking for a ship and someone willing to risk their safety for his own.Anakin Skywalker wants a life outside Tatooine, Obi-Wan wants to live, and the Force wants them together. What could go wrong when you're avoiding certain deathandtrying to get to the Core Worlds from the Outer Rim?Written for Obikin Week 2018. Day 01: Never Found - AU





	With Only Mild Complaining

**Author's Note:**

> I've been writing this for ages, I'm excited to finally show my baby to the world. I have the whole story outlined so I will update soon!
> 
> This work is unbeta'd, so any mistake you encounter is my own. Also: if you're interested in being a beta reader for this story, hit me up!
> 
> Title from that one Tumblr post: "I would follow you to the ends of the Earth _with only mild complaining_."

Under the scorching suns, the ship grumbles and beeps for almost an hour. At least, that’s how long it feels like. When it finally stays silent and still, there’s nothing else to do but get out of it and seek shelter. Obi-Wan’s stomach protests. And food. He would stay inside if he had any time to spare, if he’s being honest. He would sleep on one of the quarters and wait until after dawn to find… What does he even need to find? A mechanic? Another ship? Somewhere he can finally eat something? Or a place to get drunk until he passes out? He’s certain Tatooine has one of the latter, and he would absolutely enjoy being wasted, but duty calls, unfortunately.

 

His clothes must go, and they go rather quickly. The stolen ship’s owner has an awful taste in them, but they seem cheaper, and dressing lighter won’t kill him. Being overdressed almost did, after all. He can’t even see himself after he’s finished, but he figures looks aren’t that relevant in a planet bound to slavery and poverty. And, if he doesn’t resemble the respectable Senator of Stewjon, well, that’s for the best. With a dirty jacket that’ll only get dirtier, bright trousers that won’t burn his legs, and a blaster that he’d prefer not to use, he jumps out of the ramp that doesn’t fall all the way to the gritty ground and mentally prepares himself to walk and dehydrate, already missing Alderaan’s climate.

 

There’s no assurance in Tatooine’s safety, not on the dessert and definitely not on the town. He’s sure gossip will reach the assassins’ ears if anyone recognizes him, but he has nowhere else to hide. Mandalore was near, yes, but it would have been an awful place to take his personal battle to, even if Satine would’ve forgave him for the chaos that he would’ve provoked. And her people don’t need more reasons to doubt where her loyalty lies, and her personal alliance to Reckless Kenobi would do her no good.

 

“ _Ben, you insufferable troublemaker_ ,” he imitates her accent. “ _Don’t get yourself killed_.”

 

With hope, he starts checking his pockets for money the owner of the ship left in his jacket and chooses not to determine how much he’s carrying to protect his already damaged spirit. He sighs before making his way to civilization. “I’m trying, Satine. I’m trying.”

 

It’s after the beginning of a serious case of dehydration that he finds somewhere to rest and drink something. However, the drink burns his insides like the suns did with his face, but he needs a morale booster, even if it comes in the form of an absolutely not-safe drink. He hasn’t found a safe place to dine yet, but he already killed any hunger he got with the only beverage he could afford. The cantina is crammed with people that could already know who he is, but are willing to look the other way to avoid trouble, or to pretend there isn’t any. He should have done something to his recognizable face before coming here, he realizes too late, because a familiar dathomiri clad in all black has been looking at him since he put a foot in the place, and he can sense trouble is coming. Maybe he shouldn’t have come at all.

 

“You are far away from the Core.” She whispers to his back before sitting on the stool besides Obi-Wan, and orders a couple of those disgusting drinks. A welcome surprise for a desperate soul, he never thought she would actually acknowledge his presence, not after the last time. A glimpse at her lithe form denounces her current occupation: a black outfit replaces her vibrant old uniform and she’s sporting short, growing hair now.

 

“Says who?” He gulps the offered drink with fake bravado. His stomach is killing him and his throat is begging him to stop.

 

“I do. You must be…” Her eyes shrink in fake confusion. Oh, he’s sure she’s enjoying this a lot.

 

“Ben.”

 

A snort. “Right.” Ventress downs hers and orders another one with a gesture, taking his actions for a challenge. Obi-Wan is certain he’ll lose. “You looking for something? An adventure, maybe?”

 

Her questions are met with silence, and an arch of an eyebrow. Words and saliva too valuable to spend them in the false pretense between them.

 

“This was starting to get interesting, _Ben_. You’re no fun when people are trying to kill you.” She downs her drink again. “I don’t know why you’re in Tatooine of all places, Kenobi. There’s far too many people looking for you, and you’re still alive only because this is… Let’s say, a safe haven, for the scum of the galaxy.”

 

“You’re here too.”

 

“Exactly. Don’t drink it fast.” A durasteel bottle is laid in front of him and he doesn't hesitate in drinking it, he knows it's water. The precious liquid feels strange but needed in his parched mouth, still he does what he is told. “Those clothes suit you. Better than the ugly robes you’re so keen on wearing all the time.”

 

The music prevents him from speaking loud and his throat still hurts, so he leans towards Ventress. “I’m flattered, love.”

 

With a husky chuckle, she looks at the comm in her wrist, and then at their surroundings. The dusty cantina is still dusty and loud, and no one is looking at them. Not directly, at least.

 

“I was near when I got the message from one of your guards. But I can’t protect you.” Sorrow drips in her voice, either for those who she knew or the man in front of her, and the crestfallen senator tries with all his might not to feel helpless.

 

She breaks their mutual gaze to sit around, with the bar behind her back and both elbows raised on it. “I know you. You want to avoid the bloodshed that has been following you since last week. And that's a death sentence, Obi-Wan.”

 

Bail and Breha are both injured due to his request for refuge, most of his guards are dead, and Mandalore is doubting Satine’s ideals again for sending quite a few people to his aid. And that’s only the people he knows. There are innocent sentients suffering in Alderaan and Stewjon, his home planet, some of them already dead, and it’s possible Maul and his cluster haven’t put an end to the torture in his home planet if they consider he could return. He wishes Ventress could help him, yes, but he refuses to be the reason of her death. He never wanted anyone to die protecting him, and he’s afraid death is coming after everyone he cares about.

 

“They made their choice, Kenobi.” She says with a brief look at his face like his thoughts are written all over it, and they probably are. “Stop lamenting and fight _back_.”

 

Returning to her initial position, she sighs. “I made mine, too. I called someone to get you out of this rock. He does charity work often, poor guy is as dumb as they come, so he’ll help. And you can trust him. Even if you trust anyone that you think will be a good person, you kriffing…”

 

“Asajj.”

 

She growls in frustration. “Alright. Just go over there and wait. You have time. Maul is nowhere near here and the guy will come as soon as I leave this place. You understand?”

 

“Asajj.” He says, one more time.

 

“What?”

 

“Thank you.” And they gaze at each other as a goodbye, just like old times.

 

It’s only after he’s seated where Ventress indicated, that she winks and leaves. The time to miss her never comes, Obi-Wan being too familiar with her constant departure. After he finishes the bottle, his thirst is somewhat bearable, so he does what he was asked and waits. He doesn't have a comm, and a clock is too much for a cantina apparently, but he guesses he spends 20 more minutes there before a pantoran sits in front of him and falls dead in the table in a blink, with his finger on the trigger of a blaster he never got to use. On Obi-Wan. Chaos ensues. He uses the blaster that would have been his death to hit the female zabrak aiming at his head from the other side of the dusty place. The scum of the galaxy, he tries to remind himself while covering with sentients caught in the crossfire, but that fact does nothing to alivianate the guilt of his heart. All this blood for a poor bastard like him.

 

The zabrak is skilled, but the injury in her right shoulder kriffs her shots and Obi-Wan is alive, he’s alive, he’s still alive. The sentients that are alive like him want one or both of them dead, so he throws punches and kicks and quietly thanks his old days at the academia.

 

A sentient with sharp teeth bites his forearm and makes him drop the borrowed blaster, obliging him to use his left hand and the blaster that has accompanied him ever since fleeting Stewjon. His aim is not as accurate as it was, and the adrenaline of the fight is wearing off each second that passes, but Obi-Wan needs to get out. He’s still alive, so he keeps fighting, even if his lungs are screaming and his eyes sting from sweat. Right at the opening of the cantina, he dodges miraculously a bolt from the zabrak, and runs.

 

“You won’t get far, Kenobi!” is all she says before the senator turns around and hits her in the stomach. After that, he doesn’t look back.

 

He runs until he leaves the alike houses of Mos Espa behind. His useless ship can keep him warm when the temperature drops at night, he doesn't care if it won't protect him from blasters and lightsabers anymore. And everything looks the same as when he made his way to the city, but something tells him he’s not hurrying in the right way. He can't stop nevertheless, the woman could have some partner looking for him.

 

He’s hopeless, and exhausted, and he needs to lay down. And he just killed a woman, he reminds himself with anger on his heart.

 

There’s no way of knowing for how long he was walking, but he looks at the sky once and he realizes the suns are setting in the wrong direction. He’s just gotten away from his ship. He’ll die of dehydration or hunger or kriffing hypothermia. With the adrenaline from the fight long gone, every step towards the unknown is hurting him, but he can’t will himself to go back. He just needs to lay down. He needs to lay down. He needs to lay down.

 

* * *

 

 

Shmi Skywalker owes everything to the Force. In Tatooine, not everyone believes in it, but she decided, long ago, that a free woman wouldn't educate her children as slaves. She knew she would be one someday, and she was right. Her son, their workshop, their freedom. It all was thanks to the Force. Even the stinky Banthas in her yard, and the reluctant eopie that took her home while the suns were setting.

 

She felt his desperation before she could look at him, and thanked the Force again for its timing. He would've been dead if he would not have been found.

 

* * *

 

Obi-Wan is woken up by a couple of voices having a discussion. The non-human one was losing. His eyes feel crusty when opened and the dirt caked on his bare chest and arms is just… disgusting. Showering is a foreign concept for someone on the run, he’s learned from time to time. Unless you end up on Kamino. Too bad this is Tatooine.

 

Lucidity comes to him after the discussion is over, leaving no clear traces of the conversation he accidentally eavesdropped. His surroundings are unknown to him, it looks like he's in a room that hasn't been used since forever. Or maybe that's how things are around here. Some posters of ships are on the walls and there's a lot of pieces and parts in a corner of the small space. It's a mechanic’s bedroom. Or workspace. Maybe he's laying where a broken thing should go. Maybe that's accurate.

 

“Dammit, Artoo,” the human voice complains. Obi-Wan makes a mental note not to anger the irascible droid that just fled the room. His foggy brain tells him that that must’ve been a lecture. “Oh, hello. I won't hurt you.”

 

Blinking fast the dirt entering his eyes, he focuses on the man walking towards him, talking like he's dealing with a frightened animal. Honeyed hair, dark clothes, and a soft gaze make a contradiction of him, something far from most of Tatooine bitter inhabitants. He believes him. Assaj’s words about how easy it is for him to trust everyone echo in his head but he’s run out of hope and he seems like a nice man. He looks… clean, too, and there's envy in his chest for that fact.

 

Water is immediately put in front of his mouth while a hand finds its way behind his head. He helps him by supporting himself on his elbows. “Don't say anything, you must be thirsty.”

 

Obi-Wan can't do anything but nod and gulp the precious liquid.

 

“Are you feeling alright? I think I healed your wounds pretty good. We still have to apply some bacta in that forearm, just in case.” His tone goes from concerned to arrogant to concerned again, all in a blink, he wonders how the stranger didn't got whiplash from his own mood swings. The glass of water is taken away from his lips to receive an answer, he must have forgotten that he was asked not to talk like a second ago.

 

Can Obi-Wan even answer that? He almost died, his mind supplies, his forearm is sore, his head is pounding, he’s pretty sure something died on his mouth and his stomach starts rumbling for some food on cue. And he has a lot of questions, too, but his voice will come wrong if he decides to voice them. It's better to answer first to his giddy saviour. With a raspy voice full of doubt, he says: “I guess.”

 

He nods, like what he said is an acceptable reply, and proceeds to leave the glass in a secure place, not looking at him anymore. “Anakin Skywalker. How shall I call you? Your Highness? I don't know how to talk to Senators.”

 

It's no surprise that he recognizes him. At least the stranger isn't pointing a blaster at him, and his guard is already down, anyway. If this man wanted him dead, he would have killed him while he was unconscious. And he wouldn't have taken care of him at all. “Obi-Wan is okay.”

 

His hands are occupied with a bacta patch that doesn't need preparation, still he's taking his time searching for something wrong with it.

 

“Obi-Wan.” Anakin tests the name in his mouth. “Never been to Stewjon. Actually, I've been there but I haven't _been_ there, you know? I’ve heard it's beautiful. I can't ask you about it, because you won't be objective. Not that you can't be objective! But you know, you must love your home planet. Well, I don't even like mine but…”

 

The senator feels terribly old beside him. Anakin Skywalker, apparently, is young, energetic and full of dumb hope, he can tell just by his rambling. He can also tell what his next words are going to be.

 

“The thing is… you need to get out of here and I'm a pilot. I know about the risks, I knew about them when I brought you here, and I can take you to Coruscant unharmed. I _will_ take you to Coruscant.”

 

And there it is.


End file.
